


Drown

by bigOwlEngery (Hecatetheviolet)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Consent Issues, Dirty Talk, Dream Sex, Dreams and Nightmares, It/Its Pronouns for The Archivist, JonPeterWeek 2021, M/M, Married Couple, Mentioned Elias Bouchard, Mind Rape, Misuse of Beholding Avatar Powers (The Magnus Archives), Monster Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Psychic Bond, Statement Hunger (The Magnus Archives), Unwilling Arousal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29072505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hecatetheviolet/pseuds/bigOwlEngery
Summary: Really, he should have known something was wrong when the Archivist came willingly. Came like a stray cat called from an alley, practically purring in his grip. Peter had not forgotten the violent guttings the ships cats perform on the ships mice, laid as offering in dark corners. He had simply forgotten himself to be a rat.Or, the difference between an anchor and a drowning stone is whether one took the dive willingly.
Relationships: Peter Lukas/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35
Collections: JonPeter Week 2021





	Drown

**Author's Note:**

> This work is for JonPeter Week 2021, Day 2: nightmares/fantasy AND open ocean/personal space. Uh, bingo?
> 
> Jon gets cunt and breasts/tits in this one. Peter gets cock.

I

"Now, Peter," Elias chides, not bothering to repress his amusement. “Our poor Archivist is dreadfully sick. Can't stomach anything but Lonely statements, these days. You ought to be doing your duty and supporting him in this trying time."

"Of course I'm doing my duty, Elias. The affairs of my family simply don't involve you. I'll be at port in three days and come running home with gifts and all will be well. You'll see," Peter replies idly, ignoring the ring on his finger.

Elias doesn't need to laugh. The long distance line crackles with static and interference. A storm rages outside Peter’s cabin window. "Glad to hear it. Been sleeping well alone, again? Don't tell me you find yourself missing something in your bed, Peter. I know how lonely one can get, out at sea."

Peter doesn't need to laugh either. He couldn’t if he tried.

Once, he had slept sparingly and fitfully, never quite allowed to find comfort in rest. Now, he sleeps deep and unbreakable from dreams firmly rooted in the bedrock of his being. Being anchored has never suited Peter. He’s never found peace anywhere but the open sea.

Night falls over the Tundra not like a veiled excuse to disappear－ as it should－ but as a hammer comes down on an anvil. By the Archivist’s decree, Peter is forced to sleep. His eyes slide closed, and he knows better than to fight it.

And so he dreams.

II

Peter is no longer alone in his dreams. He was not aware that he had been, before.

He’s never dealt with invasions on his solitude well.

III

Waves rock up into the clouds and drag vapor down into the depths, rolling through the motions of a silent storm in black and white. Peter lies on the deck, blinded by lightning. Peter lies on the bed, eyes held open. The sea rocks the ship like an insignificant toy upon the lip of the world and shadows pass through the closed hotel windows as the Archivist sways above him, hips rolling deep and steady with every crashing wave.

Peter grits his teeth and holds on to something. The rope creaks in his hands, the sheets slide cool and soft, the Archivist’s body is fever hot: the Archivist’s body burns to behold. The warmth of a living being sheds like scales where they connect, where the howling Lonely in Peter rejects it. The pleasure of where they connect is painful with it. The sweat-soaked spray-salt terror keeps him gasping, writhing, helpless to the whims of the sea. The statements overlapping keeps him disorientated. The wreck. Their wedding night.

Not with the gentler cast that softens old memories into dreams, but with the stark light of absolute truth and perfect recall that delineates nightmares. Statements. The scenes play on, dragging the star of the show to center stage, even as he drowns.

The tight clutch of the Archivist’s cunt keeps Peter anchored to the ground, the deck, the sheets, the desk it reads its statements from, the center of the dream, the apple of its eye. It doesn’t matter. It all matters. Stinging rain slaps his face, plasters his clothes to his body. Cool air brushes over his bare skin. His heart pounds fast enough to stop, but the Archivist would never allow such a thing.

Peter’s hands move to hold its hips down and he thrusts up harshly, squeezed tight to the root. The Archivist covers his hands and grinds down firmly, all eyes on Peter. He grits his teeth, but the words embedded in the nightmare pour out of his throat. Just like every other night. A recording obediently replaying tape after tape after tape.

“You take it so well, Archivist. Let’s see how good you are at it in a month or five, shall we?”

The Archivist’s head bobs side to side. Its shoulders shake. The discordant motion spills it out of the bounds of the outline of Jon. Peter snarls as much as he can through the next thrust, the tight cunt of the creature above him superimposed over the slap of a wave reaching over the railing and pinning Peter down, over the fluttering of the other figure above him, straining in his grip. That figure wasn’t laughing then. Moaning. Peter understands the encouragement now. The cajoling for dirty talk. To let loose.

_We’ll enjoy the memories later._

“Be so big, I’ll have to take you like this every time,” Peter grits out.

The Archivist shakes with laughter. Jon leans in to match it. Takes one of his hands from its hip and guides it to its belly, like it does in the other dream, like the icy water tore the rope from his gasp. Stings his palm. Leaves a scar. Curves under his fingers, now. Heavy.

_Promise? I’ll need something to keep me company while you’re out at sea again._

The Archivist rocks above him as the cargo lines snap, all eyes, all eyes. Peter thrusts fiercely, rain sliding between his teeth, the Vast demanding a drowning. The Archivist demanding a meal.

“Might not take the first time. Leave you on your lonesome instead. Make a proper Lukas out of you,” he curses.

_Pray that won’t happen. I’d hate to be left bereft of you and have this be all for nothing－ oh!_

The Archivist and Jon ride him to a crescendo, the terror peaking around the vertical pitch of the wave, the first orgasm it had on Peter’s cock. Peter cums hard. He always does.

It isn’t over.

_God’s sake, Peter－ that’s enough. It’s taken, it’s taken, let me have a moment－_

He is kneeling on the bed, still hard, the Archivist wetter than ever, snapping his hips in deep. He is staring out the window at the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, nothing but the refuse of humanity as far as the eye can see. Nothing moves; not even the invisible waves. Nothing but eyes for seeing, inside the bridge as all the faceless nameless crew stare helplessly, unmoving. The Archivist rocks back into him, thighs spread wide, wider than they are in the dream, the echo. The honeymoon suite. Arms laced around Peter’s neck like the rings around the dead staring gulls in the water. He can barely see Jon in it anymore.

“Oh, certainly not. Shouldn’t you know everything? Third time’s the charm, they say. Hey, I like this position; gives a good view! Be better later, of course,”

The mirror is not on the ship but it is in the dream and through the fog of it he meets the Archivists eyes eyes eyes squinted at him pleasantly. No mouth but for eyes. All of them drop to the Archivist’s belly as Peter gets his hands on it. The dream figure is plump but empty. The monster now is swollen taut.

Peter’s cock throbs as he traces his hands through the air, miming a wide curve. What was once a promise is now a nearly fulfilled threat; a bare half inch of air exists between his mocking palm and the arc of the Archivist’s stomach. He leaves his hand there, pressing firmly. An eruption of blue bottle caps and tangled netting sprays onto the deck, smearing iridescent gore, dragging up corpses of mutated fish. The sailor at the wheel turns the Tundra with wide jerky motions that run too slow. The Extinction looms on every horizon.

“But it’s nice enough now, I suppose. Say－ you like looking, right? Elias always did. I’ll tell you something, though－ you are much more lovely to look at,”

He squeezes at one full breast, the pretty satin material of the dream sliding under his fingers like an oil slick, the nightmare figure’s strange static flesh buzzing and blinking. So many eyes flutter at him, hooded and soft.

_Best take advantage of the view now, then._

“Oh,” Peter spits, “I’ll do my best.”

 _There’s nothing. God, there’s nothing left._ An unnamed sailor chokes out from his place frozen in front of the window, as every night. Despair throbs in his heart. Fills his lungs with fumes. The Archivist tips its head back into Peter’s shoulder. Keeps his hand pinned where there is everything.

He thrusts in deep. Cums. Slips sideways onto a marble floor. The feast continues.

Moorland House, now; as he remembers it from his formal initiation. The white on the walls, the cracks in the plaster, the brightness of the lights, the height of Peters head above his brand new boots. Nothing is left to fade from him. Every detail rubs on newly raw wounds like sandpaper. The foregone conclusion looms overhead, adding a new dimension of terror to the memory.

Peter sprints around the corner, as the dream dictates he must.

The thin halls should fade to white at every turn. The windows should show only a deep twilight fog. He is lost in his own house. This has never been less his home. His heart pounds sickeningly hard. Peter opens the heavy oak door to the room he was kept in, struggling with the ancient, rattling knob, and finds the Archivist waiting there, sitting patiently on the thin, scratchy sheets of the bed. Watching. All eyes.

Peter shuts the door. Turns to find the Archivist at the end of the hall, arms crossed. About facing only brings it closer, tapping one finger lightly as it stands. Peter skirts the figure and half-jogs down the barren hallway just as he once had, and every room he peers into has a thousand eyes waiting for him. The same around every corner. He knows he will grow used to this－ familiarity is the point, in a way－ but even expecting it at every turn does nothing to calm his speeding heart, the quicker turn of knobs under his hands, the faster step of his feet, loose in his too-stiff boots.

A dread thicker than what he should feel gathers in the place of wilting mist. By the time Peter discovers the ceremonial chamber in the labyrinth of the house, the Lonely is all but gone and he pants from the frantic running. There is a gaze on him from every angle, and there is nowhere to hide.

Seated in place of his dower grandfather is the Archivist. A thousand eyes regard Peter lazily, one hand resting on the arm of the heavy wooden chair, the other tapping patiently at its belly, ring glinting in the light, shining in the dark.

The wine glass on the table between them does not hold an ancient vintage of sorrow. Peter does not need the power of knowing to know full well that it will not save him, not this time. It will not pour Loneliness into every corner of his being and cleanse the stares from his skin. It will make him choke on the terror of the wrong sort of loss, when something meets his lips instead of nothing.

Even still, this is no longer Peter’s domain. He traces out frantic memorial steps and grabs the glass with hands that shake. The eyes that watch him gag and sob are squinted so deeply as to look like smiles, like mouths.

_Give me something to remember you with, then._

That mouth is open with panting. Nonexistent in another layer of the figure laid back on the bed, supine in silk sheets, somehow fitting on his grandfather’s chair. Peter stands before the table, finding solitude and perfect despair in an empty cup. Peter stands at the edge of the bed, coming Jon. Peter stand before the throne, anchored in place by the Archivist.

“Oh, I’ll fill you up with plenty, Archivist. Don’t you worry about that. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be ruined for anyone else. Won’t be room left in you for a single drop more of me.”

The Archivists hair slides through the armrest, the sheets, Peter’s hand. Tangles around his ring.

 _Good_ , it reminds him, trembling with mirth. _I want you all to myself, anyway._

IV

Peter jolts awake, shaking and cold with fear sweat, the hideous residue of inhabitance choking him. Paralysis holds him steady in the Archivist’s jaws for a few moments more. Static roars in his ears. The coat on the hook is a waiting figure, the pressure of his thin sheet dragged down at his side by the body of another. Abruptly, the pressure loosens, and he is able to breathe. Peter finds himself alone and awake and still, even still, _watched_. The ring on his finger chafes. The moonlight spills over the shifting sea out his tiny window, casting light into the shadows. He groans into his pillow, does not bother to move. Waits for the next dream to drag him under.

Peter should have considered the consequences of his choices when he had been very well aware that the Archivist was an unmanageable glutton when he was only eating for two. He should not have assumed that adding a third appetite to the mix would be a survivable offense.

Really, he should have known something was wrong when the Archivist came willingly. Came like a stray cat called from an alley, practically purring in his grip. Peter had not forgotten the violent guttings the ships cats perform on the ships mice, laid as offering in dark corners. He had simply forgotten himself to be a rat.

Peter hadn’t thought himself clever for stealing Elias’ little Archivist away, no; he had found the opportunity to hold something over the Heart, and had taken it in hand. The payment for Elias wasting his time with an almost-Lonely assistant, when something steeping in loneliness and watching and distrust for Elias was wasting away in the Archives, sleeping on the knife’s edge of immortality. Ripe for the picking.

Peter is patient, yes, but he is also greedy. Elias had played a well kept hand, the rest of the deck still clutched in his fist, and the few cards Peter had gotten glimpses of were orchestrated. Peter knew that abut Elias. He just assumed he was too low in the pecking order to really count for anything. Just a cog in the machine who only needed to play his small part in some overbearing grand scheme.

Elias has a bad habit of losing that he enjoys keeping up in his spare time; who ss Peter to deny him?

When he had felt Elias’ watchful gaze sweeping over him as he took the Archivist, he had felt it _seething_. Felt it boil in quick anger from too far a distance to stop the proceedings, to offer objection to a ceremony that honored none. Trapped in the passive web of his own watching. Peter had hoped he enjoyed losing his Archivist as much as his Institute.

Perhaps the congratulatory call the next morning, when Peter was still groggy and dizzy from giving a Statement and being firmly held in bed by an untrained gaze that pierced like javelins instead of Elias’ sturdy cage, should have been a hint.

After all, it was not the quick wedding he was praised for, but surviving the Archivist’s personal attention.

V

He’s not sure he did.

VI

Peter is reminded of this keenly, every time he finds himself fitting his key in the lock. This was once his stop off, nothing more than a calm bolthole of the Lonely just outside London. The massive windows forced a view of the populated boulevards when open, cut out the sounds of traffic and rain and life at every moment.

Now they are half curtained, with books and curios on the sill. A lighted window, viewed from the wrong side. Peter sways in the entrance to what was once his house, the visceral disgust of finding it a home making him shudder. Squares his shoulders.

It’s warm, now. The once frozen and pristine fireplace has been christened to be a lovingly managed little hearth that lights up the house and fills it with heat and care. It smells like warm food and life. The Lonely clings heavy to the windows, keeps the taps running chilled, stifles sound. This place is Lonely, yes; but in a way that is anathema to Peter. Sets an uncomfortable weight on his shoulders.

Peter’s Loneliness is _t_ _he Tundra_ ’s anchor chain, tugging him back to sea. As few familiar faces as possible. None of that temptation of humanity. No solid ground. This place is a hollow nest. A table set for two with only one chair filled. A too-large bed. An empty cradle. Left waiting. Expectant. There is a Peter shaped hole in this house, and he has no choice but to fill it.

“Welcome home, Peter.”

“Lovely to be back, of course,” Peter responds cheerfully, taking off his cap as he has been told is polite. Hangs up his coat. Tugs off his boots.

Elias’ little Archivist isn’t so little anymore. Well fed and glowing. Swollen fit to burst.

It should do Peter proud, or smug, to have left him so fat. But the heavy shape of where his child sits hostage in the Archivist’s womb only fills him with a vague dread. He was not certain whether he wanted a drowning stone or an anchor. He still isn’t sure which it is. Same as those eyes, which can pluck him out of the Lonely like fishhooks, reel him in from the sea. Still floundering.

Peter’s own folly led him here, but the ink on the contract dried months ago.

Jon closes the door behind him, sealing Peter inside. The nameplate below the peephole flashes in the sunset glare. _Mr & Mx Sims._

Peter is still uncertain how the sound of the lock turning feels. A cage. A protective barrier. Solid ground, held steady. Restriction. Either way, his family approved little enough of his named, familiar ship. He hasn’t heard the name Lukas in months. Despite being ashore, he isn’t adrift.

He’s never had an anchor before.

It’s disturbing. It’s too much. It’s everything he’s ever wanted.

VII

He isn’t a Lukas anymore. The Archivist has made sure of that.

**Author's Note:**

> peter voice when im done with you, lets just say archivists wont be called archivists anymore  
> *5 months later*  
> peter voice help girl im drowning


End file.
